17. Gwen
Gwen
Because of course I’d wind up nearly sandwiched between those two men. And of-freaking-course my dad walked in on that. Why wouldn’t he?
At least it was just turbulence, and it’s fizzled out now, and we don’t appear to be on the verge of crashing to our deaths. For a second back there, I was legit worried we were about to be Final Destination’ed. That we were meant to die in that helo crash and Death was coming for us now.
Funny, the only reason my Gen Z self even knows about that movie franchise is because of the millennial who saved me tonight. We watched them together. I secretly hate scary movies, but what I do like is crawling onto Easton’s lap and hiding my face in his shirt at the gory parts.
“You okay?” Natasha asks as I strap in on the couch in between her and Dad.
I don’t answer her, because I’m too distracted by the side-eye Dad’s shooting me. I’m not sure whether he’s still edgy about my abduction (which, you know, fair), or he’s stressed out over the two guys he saw me wedged in between like I’m the peanut butter to their jelly.
Oh.
My.
Gosh.
Did I hit my head? Drugs still in my system? Because my jokes might be corny, but they’re never as ridiculous as Easton’s.
“Gwyneth?” Oh great, Dad using my government name is never good.
“Are you okay?” He pats my knee twice, and the guy is gonna have to go to a new age retreat or something to undo all the damage the crash and now this has caused him.
Because those deep grooves set in his forehead and around his eyes are a hundred percent my fault.
“I’m fine.” I snort. And yup, that’s super convincing of being fine. “It’s not like I was kidnapped and that woman has my rig and all my secrets.”
“Thank you for that recap and reminder.” Dad slides his hand behind my back, and his fingers bury into my arm as he urges me even closer to him. The man is never gonna let me go now. He’ll consider me made of glass going forward.
Carter’s still standing despite the rough skies, just one hand on the ceiling to keep himself from falling while holding his iPad with the other. “What kind of secrets?” Guess he picked up on that when Dad was too busy dadding me.
“No, no. It’s not like I have the nation’s nuclear codes or anything like that on it.” Lots of important programs I don’t want her hands on, though, among other things.
Carter glares at me, and Dad gives my arm a gentle squeeze of support not to be intimidated by the man’s death stare.
I learned a long time ago Carter’s just a big teddy bear, just like Easton’s brother-in-law.
As long as you’re part of the grizzly’s family, you’re safe.
Anyone else? Consider yourself inside an episode of Bears Gone Mad.
I’ve lost my flipping mind. I groan and fold forward, pressing my forearm tight to my stomach while closing my eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Natasha whispers, and I’m pretty sure it’s her hand on my back. It’s definitely smaller than Dad’s, and lighter in pressure. Reassuring without being over the top.
“I’ve snapped, that’s all. My brain’s scrambled.” I hate they’re witnessing me coming undone like this.
I’d rather be spiraling into a good ugly cry like I was earlier with Easton than stuck in some cringeworthy bad-joke purgatory. Maybe this is my brain trying to protect me from that room? From the darkness of what that woman can do with my rig?
“I think that’s normal. You’ll cycle through different emotions.” Natasha slides her hand gently up and down my spine.
I finally sit taller, and Dad keeps hold of me as Natasha returns her hand to her lap.
Everyone in the cabin’s minding their own business, giving me space to lose it, which is nice. But what’s taking Easton and Julian so long?
“About the secrets?” Carter prompts, business as usual as he sits by Constantine, opposite of where Gideon and Zoey are seated.
“Personal stuff.” Am I too old to keep a diary?
Maybe journal is a better word for it at my age?
“I have some personal thoughts on there.” Because of course I typed everything instead of being old school and writing in a book that I can hide under my bed.
But my rig was supposed to be safe from other eyes.
Before it dawns on anyone that I have sides other than being obsessed with being a human computer, I pivot and ask, “Did you find out yet whether those two men you clocked as bodyguards by the pool were—”
“They were bodyguards, just not ours,” Natasha cuts in. “A billionaire’s daughter was vacationing there. In the cabana next to us. They were keeping tabs on her.”
My shoulders relax at the news, only because I don’t want Natasha feeling unnecessarily guilty about something, and I know she would if those men were in on this.
“Do you feel up to making an ID on the two men Julian—”
“No.” My turn to interrupt her. “Sorry, I mean no but yes.” My stomach turns. Bloody hell.
Dad’s hand lands back on my knee for support. “Zoey, how about you take a look? You’ll be able to recognize them, too.”
Good call, thank you.
“I’ll put up the images from Julian’s laptop,” Gideon offers, then turns the screen toward her.
Zoey leans in over him, and Gideon straightens to give her some space as she takes a look while I do my best to keep it together, not wanting to think about those pricks ever again if I can help it. Not possible I know, but still.
“They’re the men from the room. One was outside the door where Gwen was being held, and the other one . . .” Zoey’s voice shakes slightly and her words trail off. She shuts her eyes and sits back. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I rush out, holding up a hand. “They didn’t”—I gulp as Dad squeezes my knee, trying to keep himself together, same as me—“hurt me. You two got to me in time.” I’ll keep reminding everyone of that if I have to.
Zoey opens her eyes and peers at Gideon. “Julian was right,” she confirms again in a sharp tone.
“Well, that’s a solid lead, then.” I hope. Something tells me Zoey needs a reprieve from talking about what almost went down in that room, so I switch gears. “And, um, is there anything new from the Australians about the compound strike?”
Before anyone can answer me, Easton and Julian finally return. Neither seems to be bleeding, so I’ll take that as a good sign fists weren’t thrown. And why would they be? Not over me, of course, because neither has ever been under or on top of me, and—
Oh. My. God. I’m probably beet red by now.
Easton drops onto one of the leather armchairs. He looks like he just weathered a storm.
What in the world was said back there?
I’ll probably never find out. Well, not unless I bother the hell out of him to get it out. And knowing me . . . I won’t be able to stop myself from doing that. Just not now.
“So,” Easton says around a hard swallow, “what’d I miss?”